Areadbhar
by Mlawrance
Summary: Trapped in a small town and pursued by the Unknown, a young man attempts to survive a convergence of circumstances conspiring to tear him apart. Original Protagonist, supporting cast from novels.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's Note: Hi guys! I haven't read the most recent release, so assume this all happens right after _Dead in the Family_. My protagonist is an Original Character, but don't worry your little strip-ed heads, I'll end up trotting out all of your favorites by the time I get through it. Also, shout out to Empyreal Phoenix for beta reading this monster for me! And no, the title is not a SVM reference, it's a mythological one that will come into play muuuuch later. Anyway, hope you enjoy - review and let me know what I did wrong!  
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><p>The water was the sort of cold that made my skin shriek out an instantaneous protest, no matter how many minutes I had stood willing myself into preparation on the dock. The shock of my body striking the glassy surface propagated ripples that rolled lazily across the disturbed surface – while the shock of the temperature propagated out through my body. My head broke the surface, and I raised my hand to slick away an errant lock of hair from my eyes. When I looked back at the dock, I could see Jessica crouched on the end of the dock, struggling with her socks – sporting little felt rabbits, today. I treaded water, feeling the hairs on my arms slowly rise as the icy water provoked me into gooseflesh.<p>

Jessica said something to me, but I couldn't hear exactly – her lips were moving as she sat down awkwardly on the leaning wooden planks of the pier, in the final stages of removing her last sock. The wind pushed a few strands of her wheat-coloured hair across her wide, cornflower-blue eyes before it swept down across the lake to whisper through the pines on the far bank. Despite not being able to hear her voice, the wind was strangely audible to me, and I spun on the spot slowly to examine the far shore – losing sight of Jessica in the process.

Then it happened.

I felt the long, tapered fingers – colder still than the water – close in around my ankle and suddenly a ferocious strength tightened around my calf and I was ripped under the surface. The murky water closed over my head, tinting the world a sudden, sinister greenish-brown. Water flooded in through my nose and mouth and I gagged, tasting the metallic coppery flavor of brackish pond. A plume of bubbles erupted from my mouth, and I saw them flash up towards the surface above me, causing the dim blades of sunlight that penetrated the surface to ripple.

Reflexively, I kicked my free foot (more an instinctive bid to return to the surface than a defensive measure) and felt it connect with something rough – fleshy and at the same time sharp. I felt pain explode across the front of my foot, but the grip about my ankle slackened and I propelled myself back to the surface. I spat a plume of water from my mouth as I thrust my head over the water, and inhaled a great, panicked breath. Jessica was standing on the edge of the dock now, screaming and jumping up and down – her tiny fists clenched on her cheeks – her eyes already welling with fright. Beyond her, I could see my parents still settling the blanket down on the bank, pausing to regard the tumult with perplexed glances – alarm had yet to set in.

I tried to orient myself, but there was water in my eyes. I swept it aside and began swimming for shore, my arms furiously and haphazardly churning the water. I kept my eyes on Jessica and the end of the dock – the goal of my frantic strokes. She had stopped screaming when I reappeared, though her cheek were still flushed, and her eyes softened with childish relief as I paddled to the edge of the dock. As I reached for the soaked, soft edge of the dock, however, the edges of her eyes tightened again and her mouth opened in a shriek I never heard. Two arms wrapped full around my torso and I felt myself crushed against a barreled chest. My chest was squeezed brutally and the air exploded from my lungs in a torrent as I was ripped under the surface again. I could see Jessica hopping up and down on the dock again through the grimy surface, but almost immediately, everything faded to black.

I opened my eyes again. The fan over the bed was groaning rhythmically – the blades were out of alignment and the engine was complaining in response. I blinked slowly, clearing the fog of sleep from my eyes, before reaching a hand up to pinch the bridge of my nose with a sigh.

_What time is it?_

I rolled over and examined the clock. Five in the morning. I hadn't set the alarm to go off until twelve, but I swung my legs over the side of the grimy blankets the motel had provided (I hadn't been brave enough to sleep under them) and slipped my feet back into my shoes. The small room I had purchased was cramped enough that my knees touched the wall as I sat on the side of the bed. I got up, shuffled to the bathroom, and groggily pushed open the door. I got up and shuffled to the bathroom, and groggily pushed open the door. I felt for the switch and engaged the lights, before turning the tap so that I could splash some cool water onto my face. Judging from the look of the shower, it hadn't been cleaned since it was installed, so I wasn't eager to freshen up.

I could have used it, I decided, after I looked in the mirror. I was sporting a three day scruff and had dark bags under my eyes. I hadn't had a decent shower, shave, or sleep since I had passed through Knoxville two days before – elven hours on the road before I pulled in to stop at this dive west of Jackson, too tired to keep driving. I hadn't even taken the time to eat before I fell into bed and passed out.

And, as usual, I drowned again before I woke up.

I turned out the light and returned to the bed. Only ten minutes had passed, but it was the height of summer, and I could already see a pale, pre-dawn glow bleeding through the hem of the gossamer curtains the motel employed. A quick once over of the bed rekindled my latent distaste for the fixture, and inspired me to forgo returning to sleep. I picked up my duffle bag from the foot of the bed and hoisted it to my shoulder before pushing open the door. The gravel lot of the squat building merged flush with the sideroad I had turned down the night previously to find the motel. At this hour, not a single car rolled by as I walked back to the office.

The bell rang as I entered, but no one came to the desk – too early – so I simply left the traditional toothed key on the counter for them to sort out on their own before I turned and stepped back outside. It was still early, but the air was muggy and thick – sporting to rain later in the day – and I felt a bead of sweat roll down the base of my neck as I made my way back to my car. It was a junker – an old model Mustang coup I had been running hard and maintaining myself for years. She was well on her last legs, and though I wasn't overly fond of her, I didn't know where I'd get the money to replace her. I hadn't had a steady job in two years.

I opened the door and tossed my bag in the back seat as I crouched to slip inside, before I heard the sharp snap of breaking wood and glanced across the roadway. It wasn't nearly light enough to shed any sort of visibility into the thick deciduous growth that grew right up to the far side of the asphalt, so the run of trees that sulked there was dark and grim. I watched for a few seconds, and was almost sure once or twice I could make out a sinister, slender shape lingering amongst the interwoven branches, but I wasn't keen to investigate.

_Just more of the same._

I followed my bag into the car, settling into the driver' seat before I closed the door with a heavy thunk. I glanced into the rearview – the sweep of trees was still sitting quiet placid and undisturbed – before I leant over the partition between the front seats. I unlatched the glove compartment, and was consoled by the glint that shone off the six inch barrel of my Colt Python – still exactly where and how I left it. I buckled myself in and inserted the key in the ignition before turning it hard. The engine fired immediately – a rarity recently – and I threw the car into reverse, backing out of the lot and onto the road before throwing it into drive. As I accelerated, I glanced over the copse of trees again, but all was silent as the grave.

I made my way back down towards the adjoining road, and then from there, merged onto I-20, westbound. The engine droned unremarkably – a good sign – and with the prospect of another long day driving ahead of me, I let my mind wander. I didn't really know where I was going beyond the direction, but my vague plan was to drive to I-10, and then take it all the way to Los Angeles. I didn't know why – maybe it was the stereotypical locale for lost souls to gravitate to, but more likely, it was because it was the farthest place from New York. This wasn't about where I was going, after all. It was about not being where I had been.

I flicked on the radio. I was deep in the bible belt by now, and every other station was religious talk – Baptist ministers preaching damnation and salvation. The other stations were all twangy country, but I eventually found a gem in the rough – a classic rock station playing Bob Seger's _Turn the Page_. Excellent mood music. I drummed the tips of my fingers on the wheel and zoned out for a while. I thought about Jessica, fresh from my dream, and wondered where she was, and if she was alright. I thought about my folks, and wondered if they were as disappointed in me as I was in myself. I thought about the lake, and if I'd ever get decent sleep again.

Before I knew it, I had been driving nearly two hours – almost seven now. I only snapped out of my reverie because I noticed I was sweating – my air was gone. _Oh, fuck me._ I checked the temperature gauge and it was into the red, the little warning light flickering at me in alarm. I reached over and turned the air all the way to hot, and the needle dipped about a centimeter before it began to climb right away again. _Shit. _I was passing an exit and pulled off of the freeway – only glancing at the sign as I did. Bon Temps. Some hole that I'd never heard of before. _Any port in a storm_.

I got to the end of the exit ramp and turned onto the surface street – a rural affair with no building along it – before I started worrying about melting the aluminum heads off my engine, so I rolled over to the edge of the road, and killed the already ailing engine. I opened the door and stepped out – immediately being greeting by the stench of leaked coolant. _Great._ A glance under the car revealed the tell-tale drip of fluid from the works, and when I opened the hood, a billowing cloud of steam hissed past me. I couldn't tell what was wrong immediately – if it was a cracked hose (something I could fix myself with parts), or something serious, like the thermostat and housing. Regardless, I was going to need a tow – and I had precious little money, and no roadside assistance.

I checked my phone. Nothing there either – not particularly surprising out here in the boondocks – so it looked like I was on my own. Familiar territory, at least. Luckily, the road I had turned off of ended at the freeway, so there was only one way to walk, presumable towards civilization – or whatever passed as such around here. I made a note to reach into my stranded Mustang and recover the Python and the holster, which I strapped openly onto my thigh. By now the sun was fully risen, and though I hugged the thin tree-cover on the side of the road as I started walking, I was soon drenched in sweat. _God Bless the South._ It was long enough past dawn that there wasn't too much trouble from the mosquitos, and with the exception of the unrelenting heat, I wasn't too bothered by the trek.

I walked for an hour or so until I started to wonder if Bon Temps wasn't several - perhaps dozens – of miles from the freeway exit that bore its name. My shirt was saturated in sweat and I was starting to feel dehydrated. What's worse, the bushes and low underbrush had started to rustle with a frequency that was more than a little alarming. There was definitely something there. _If I don't get where I'm going soon…_

I let my hand touch the stylized grip of the revolver against my side, hoping I wouldn't have to use it. I wasn't even in condition to aim properly. I realized I had little say in the matter as my nose caught a familiar cloying scent that made me immediately nauseous. I stopped walking and turned to the bushes. The chirrup of the songbirds – which had been constant on my long walk – faded and died almost immediately, leaving nothing but the intermittent wind to speak in the humid, still air. The undergrowth continued to shudder with increasing persistence, and the coppery stench in the air grew to where I was struggling to keep my stomach from spasms.

And then I heard an engine working its way down the road. The bushes stilled immediately and I heard a form crashing away deeper into the brush. The air freshened and stilled immediately and I released my grip on the butt of my pistol as I turned back to the road. There was a bend about a hundred feet down, and a few moments later, a pickup appeared. I immediately wrinkled by nose – it was garishly painted, pink with turquoise flamed running down the body. _Beggars can't be choosers, _I reminded myself, before I lifted a hand and flagged the driver down.

He was going the other way, but he crossed over the lanes and stopped on my shoulder anyway. His window was already down, his elbow jutting from the cabin as he leaned his head out. He was a guy about my age, with carefully tousled hair and wide, surprised looking eyes.

" You alright, buddy?" I was clearly looking as bad as I felt if that was the first thing out of his mouth. He clearly hadn't noticed the gun – or maybe toting guns was pretty common this far out into the country.

"Fine. Car problems." I jerked my thumb indicatively over my shoulder back up the road. "How far is it into town?"

"Few miles still." _I wouldn't be able to walk that far._ I glanced back to the still bushes, and then back to the guy in the truck, who seemed to read enough of my expression to pick up on my distaste for the distance. "That's to the middle of town – you've got a watering hole around the bend there. Merlotte's. They open for breakfast."

"I'm guessing they have a phone to call a mechanic?"

"Sure do."

I thanked him and waved him on his way, turning to watch him go for a moment or two. Once I was sure his attention was on the road, I turned and started running.

The coppery stench didn't return, at least not immediately, but I didn't slacken my pace – if anything, the total inert nature of the swaths of woodland to my flanks propelled me down the road faster. I was running dehydrated, on an empty stomach, and on very little sleep, and soon I was gasping, but I wasn't going to slow my pace an inch until I was in the presence of other humans – or at least their presence implied by established buildings.

The driver of the garish truck hadn't done me wrong – coming around the bend, the trees on either side of the road bowed out in man-made clearings. A long building built low to the ground flanked one side, with an illuminated neon sign marking it as Merlotte's, with another poorly compacted gravel parking lot sprawling up to the edge of the paved road. Opposing it across the road was a gas-station/convenience store combo. The gas station was closer (its parking lot was shallower), but I had more confidence that there'd be a phone in the diner.

By the time I had plodded, half-stumbling, across the loose stonework of the diner's lot, my shirt was sporting a large dark crescent of sweat that stuck to my chest and to the blades of my shoulders. I noticed a sign posted on the doorframe as I reached up in order to shove it open before me:

This Establishment is Owned by a Proud Shifter.

That surprised me. The shifters – humans capable of metamorphosing into various animals – had only come out publicly a year or so earlier. The world, having been deadened somewhat to shock by the vampire 'revolution' several years before that, wasn't monumentally horrified, but I knew there was a serious movement against all 'supes' gathering steam, and if the owner of Merlotte's felt the need to declare himself with such a defensive sign, I doubted Bon Temps was any exception. Quite frankly, I didn't know any shifters or vamps on a personal level – but the same was true of normal people. I was happy enough to let them deal with their issues somewhere far away from me – I had my own to handle.

The bell affixed to the door tinkled, warning the bar of my arrival. The place was more or less barren, though – too early in the morning for any other patrons. Despite this, there was a waitress on call, and a tender behind the bar. The former was a dark-haired young woman, sitting with her legs crossed at her barstool, her attention on the pages of a magazine she had spread on the bar before her. The latter was a wiry, short-statured man with a mane of russet-blond hair, busy cleaning a pint-glass with a dishrag. The waitress was engrossed enough in her beauty tips not to notice my arrival, but the bartender glanced up my way.

I guess he was paying more attention than the guy in the truck, because he noticed the Colt on my hip almost immediately, his hand stilling in its task against the glass he held. It took me a minute to realize what had prompted his reaction, and I lifted both of my hands towards him, palms flat as I recovered enough breath to speak.

"I've a permit to carry – it's registered."

He was suspicious, but as usual, my accent disarmed him. In fact, despite that I was armed, when the girl looked up, she was smiling quite warmly in response. Despite nearly twelve years in the States, my Irish accent was still as strong as ever. _Oi've a parmit teh carreh – it's registar'd._ I reached across my hip with my left hand and pulled the Colt from its place in the holster, setting it aside on the empty hostess' podium that stood near the door.

"Here." The bartender spoke as he tipped the pint glass under the tap and pressed the button that provoked a stream of cool water to spurt from the hose and fill the clear container. _I guess I look as bad as I feel._ He set it down onto the bar as I approached, wiping the sweat from my brow with the back of a hand. "What's the problem?" The man behind the bar was pretty direct, but I took a moment to lift the glass to my lips to take a swig, curing my parched throat before I made to explain myself.

"I had to ditch my car up near the freeway – cooling system's gone. I needed a phone to call a mechanic…" By the time I had finished speaking, the bartender had reached behind him to the post that bordered the liquor shelf, and had unhooked the corded phone. He punched in a few numbers on the pad attached to the base as he handed the receiver over to me. He nodded in understanding as I accepted the phone and held it to my ear.

"What's goin' on, Sam?"

The voice in my ear was gritty, but in an endearing sort of way, rather than sinister. I'm guessing he had caller ID – Sam was the name of the bartender.

"Er…", I began, before leaning an elbow against the bar comfortably. "My name's Jonathan Loftus. Sam's leant me the phone – my car broke down on the edge of town and I need a tow…" The waitress sitting beside me at the bar was kicking her heel by now, humming pleasantly to herself as she listen to me roll my vowels.

"Oh, sorry, man. I'll get up and on my way right away!" There was a click and the phone went dead. When I held it back out to Sam, he gave a light laugh and took it from me to return it to its position on the hook.

"Terry's a bit abrupt, but he's a good guy – good with his hands."

I reached back and scratched at the hair at the back of my head awkwardly. I didn't know how to respond. "You serve any breakfast?"

"Sure. Eggs. Bacon. There's a cook on call." He reached back and knocked on the plate glass of the partition to the kitchen, and the cook slid it open. He was an older, thin black man, with grey streaks in his short hair. He was wielding a spatula as he leaned an elbow on the shelf and raised a brow at Sam. I used the moment the eyes were off me to check my wallet. Ten dollars. But I was hungry and needed to bullshit. Sam looked back at me and tilted his head indicatively to the cook.

"Two eggs over-easy, two strips of bacon and a slice of toast, yah?"

"Coming up." The cook disappeared and a moment later I heard the hiss of a grill being called into service. Sam slid the partition closed and turned his attention back to me. "Where are you heading?" he asked. Small talk – passing time until I was gone.

"Los Angeles. Or nowhere, depending on how much the fix runs me."

"Terry won't charge you much more than what it costs to fix."

"But if the whole housing's gone, that'll cost…" I let my voice drift – I was talking more to myself than to the man across from me now, and there was silence for a while as I contemplated not being able to afford a fix for my car.

"If you have to get stranded, Bon Temps isn't the worst place in the world to do it. People always need something doing – you might be able to patch together enough coin to see you on your way." Sam finished speaking right as the cook knocked on the glass partition again and slid it open, placing a plate on the shelf. Sam transferred it onto the bar in front of me, and placed a set of silverware down beside it.

I wordlessly placed my lone bill on the bar and picked up the fork and knife while change was made. Six dollars came back to me as I scooped the eggs onto my toast and let the sticky yolk bleed into the absorbent bread. My surprise clearly showed.

"Bon Temps is also a pretty cheap place to get stranded. Dollar draft tonight, too. Every Friday." Sam turned back to washing the glasses in preparation of the evening at the bar. The young waitress had long since gone back to her magazine. _Cosmo_ or something. I finished my meal just as the doors to the lot opened and a man stepped in. He was tall, lean, and rickety – about half way through his sixties, but still strong. He walked with a bit of a limp, his right leg swinging out slightly as he stepped across the hardwood floor towards the bar. A hand extended towards me.

When I took it, it had the texture of sandpaper, but his grip was steel.

"You ready to get moving?" He gave me a slightly nervous smile, like he was afraid I might shout something into his face suddenly. I simply nodded and stood. Sam and the girl at the bar didn't look up as I accompanied the new man to the door – though I stopped to pick up my revolver on the way. Terry glanced aside, but Sam – who had apparently turned to watch – called out an okay that seemed to set the older man at ease. I slid the barrel into the oiled sheath of the holster and stepped out into the sun. It was gone ten now, and the sun was beating down pretty heavy.

Terry's car was a heavy duty pick up – full sized. He had a hitch on the back with a hydraulic piston to winch it down and lift up the back wheels of a stranded vehicle – like my Mustang. I hauled myself up into the passenger seat in the cabin while Terry cranked it into gear and backed out onto the road. We sat in total silence – Terry drumming his fingers absently on the steering wheel and me staring out into space, watching the dense brush I had passed on my way in flash by in a blur, dark and still, per usual.

Though it had taken me almost an hour and a half to walk from my Mustang to Merlotte's, at fifty miles per hour, Terry had me back at my car in less than ten minutes. He pulled his truck up in front of my car and we both stepped out, Terry stretching his neck and me glancing back into the undergrowth. I opened the driver side door in order to collect my dufflebag from the back seat while Terry did a tour of the exterior of the car.

"Hey, Jonathan, before we get started, I need you to verify all the external damage on the car so's that we're square on what was around before we towed 'er."

"Of course."

Fairly standard procedure for towing, and Terry paused as he went around the passenger side, which faced the wooded shoulder. He waved a finger at it. "Like you can verify all this is already here?"

I walked around the side of the car, and had to work my tongue around my mouth for a moment before I spoke, casually. "Yeah", I said, rolling my shoulders.

Along the length of the car's body were three sharp scars that had dug out neat slashes from the paint. They had not been there when I left.


	2. Chapter 2

Sitting beside Terry in the cabin of his truck, I found that Bon Temps had a few surprises. Chiefly – it was a lot bigger than the hole in the ground I had initially taken it for. Once the tow-truck had trundled past Merlotte's, strip malls and shopping plazas began to punctuate the side of the road – though in between these developments, the forest still grew right up against the shoulder of the street. Steadily, however, the wilderness began to regress, and the sporadic passing cars heading in the opposite direction began to appear with a greater frequency until they were passing regularly.

By the time we arrived at the first intersection bearing a stoplight, the trees had been beaten back entirely from the road, replaced with a neat little sidewalk upon which the rare pedestrian strolled. The parking lots of the plazas were now more or less continuous, and one or two of the buildings actually had multiple stories. There weren't any skyscrapers, of course. Bon Temps was too small to section off its commercial district from its residential zone, so when Terry pulled his car over the curb and into the yard of his house, I noticed that he had a bar for a neighbor and a Tackle and Bait store for the other.

Several cars were already occupying his yard – all of them as forlorn and far from ambulatory as mine was. Most seemed to have been recently moved here, but a few were actually up on cinder blocks – their paint beginning to wear from the exposure. _If I don't find some way to pay this guy, mine's going to end up the same way._ Terry strummed his fingers thoughtfully on the wheel as he tried to locate a place to set my Mustang down. If he sensed my unease, he was keeping his opinion to himself, and the truck lurched into reverse as my disabled car was backed into an appropriate plot on the lawn.

"You go on inside and I'll let you know what the score is. There's some drinks in the fridge. Help yourself." Terry 's voice, though gravelly, was still easy as he threw open his door and stepped out of the truck, and I followed suite, stepping out onto the compacted dirt that formed his driveway. While Terry navigated to the driver's door of the Mustang in order to pop the hood, I climbed the low stairs that rose to his porch, each of which groaned plaintively as they took my weight. The door was open, but the screen was latched, and I made a point to close it behind me as I passed through. I figured I was taking advantage enough of Terry's hospitality without raiding his fridge, so I didn't make for the kitchen. Instead, I chose to linger in the hallway that extended from the front door towards the living room at the back of the house.

Terry was a Vietnam vet. The grainy black and white photos that hung on the walls showed him in a much younger state, smiling in combat dress mostly. I was examining an exposure in which he was sitting on an ammo crate, a cigarette between his lips and an M60 'Pig' resting against his bare shoulder, when I felt an uneasy pressure begin to press against the back of my head. I turned around instinctively and found myself facing a doorway I had failed to notice in my absorbed state. It hung open – a gaping void of darkness. For a short way within, I could see the wooden stairs that descended into Terry's basement.

I felt my temples begin to pulse, and I licked my lips – which were suddenly noticeably dry. The air began to grow heavy, carrying with it the cloying scent of decay as I stood frozen in place. And then the shadows that hunched within the doorway began to shift. Opaque black tendrils began to bleed like ink out of the threshold and across the wooden paneling of the hallway, writhing sinuously as they inched towards me. Beyond, somewhere on the stairs, I heard a long, slow breath being drawn, rattling as if in the throat of a dying man. The fingers of shadow that defied nature and pushed back the light coiled and slunk towards the toe of my motionless boot.

"Jonathan?" I glanced up and aside. Terry was standing in the doorway, wiping a hand off with a rag. He looked nervous – unsure – and I was guessing he had called my name before without response. I glanced back to the doorway, but it was innocuous now, the gloom beyond inert and precisely where it should be. I managed a threadbare smile for Terry's sake, prompting him to go on.

"Looks like the entire thermostat casing for the Mustang is gone. You had a hairline crack in it, best as I can tell, but it finally ruptured. The whole thing is just… gone. I don't have the parts to fix that, but I can order them in."

I knew right away that I wouldn't be able to pay for that, I but I kept a straight face, and didn't mention it. "How long until then?"

"A few days. I'll have it by the weekend."

I nodded my head, doing my best to look understanding and resigned before I glanced towards the front door. Terry followed my eyes and then raised and lowered a shoulder.

"Want me to drive you somewhere?"

It wasn't much past midday, and I had very little money and even less to do. I declined Terry's offer to drive me – I didn't know anywhere in Bon Temps to go. I decided to walk back towards Merlotte's. I figured that by the time I got there, it would be late enough that business would be picking up, and I'd stand a better chance of finding somewhere to stay the night. I'm not a particularly proud man.

I wandered around 'downtown' Bon Temps for a little bit, looking in the store windows. This hobby quickly fell by the wayside as I found out that small business owners are generally more suspicious to window-shoppers than chain stores, and after one too many dirty looks, I gave up. I found park situated just to the side of the main street near the 'edge' of the developed area, composed mostly of a currently abandoned play area next to a medium sized lake that had attracted the placement of several picnic tables and a jogging path. I didn't want to go too close to the water, so I sat on the swings instead.

I swung my legs idly as I watched the water, and I thought about Jessica for the first time in years, the tranquil surface stirring memories – the same memories that would in turn bring dreams. I felt a familiar lurch in my stomach, recalling the feeling of that horrific grip closing around my chest. I could still vividly see the look of terror in Jessica's face. _The last thing any of us saw of her._ I sat for a long while, watching the clouds crawl across the sky, before I reached down, stooping out of the swing to dig a finger into the dirt of the playground, looking to excavate a stone.

When I had a suitable candidate, I palmed it and edged down closer to the little path by the water, before I tossed my makeshift projectile out over the pond. It turned a few times in the air before impacting the surface with a 'plunk' of water. "Why don't you fuck off and leave me alone?" I didn't expect an answer from the inert water, but it didn't stop me from speaking anyway. I stood there for a second or so longer, growing increasingly aware of how stupid I was looking, before I turned – resolved to walk back to Merlotte's.

Before I could take my first step away from the park, I felt a sharp sting across the back of my head, and flicked a hand up to the base of my skull instinctively. A clattered echoed from the path at my feet as the rock – still dripping from the water – spun down to rest on the pavement. The pond itself betrayed not a ripple when I turned to look.

The sun has sunk low enough that once I was out of the developed part of Bon Temps, the trees to either side of the roadway blocked out much of the sunlight. As a result, it was much cooler walking back to Merlotte's from town than it had been walking in from the Interstate. With the summer daylight hours in effect, it was still light enough out that I wasn't too worried walking along the rural roadway – which naturally lacked any sort of artificial illumination. It was about eight in the evening when I strolled past the Kwik Stop and into the loosely packed gravel lot of the bar for the second time that day. It was a week night, so I didn't expect a lot of traffic – but I was surprised to find quite a few cars parked up haphazardly across the lot. Amongst them, the distinctive Aqua-flamed truck had staked a place of prominence near the front doors. I passed it as I went inside, untucking my shirt and cinching my holster higher up around my waist to hide the gun. Sam would know it was there, but no one else needed to be concerned about it, as far as I cared.

Merlotte's had a PA radio that hadn't been in use when I went in for breakfast – Billy Joel's _River of Dreams_ was in the process of being drowned out by the oppressive buzz of conversation, punctuated by the occasionally click of glass or bark of laughter. The bell affixed to the edge of the door was still audible, however, and Sam – in the process of pouring a pint for some wag at the bar – glanced up, only to nod and go back to more pressing issues. I glanced over the room, counting heads. There were maybe two dozen people in the bar at most, about a third of them were at least casual alcoholics – middle aged and hunched over the bar. The rest were more interesting fair – younger and clustered around in various groups about the room. I saw the owner of the pickup leaning against the bar talking to a couple of guys still in their construction digs – apparently Merlotte's didn't have a dress code. Despite the majority of the patrons clustering around the bar, there were still a few waitresses tending to the sparsely populated tables.

"Uh… hi?" The voice came from a tan-skinned, exotic looking girl bidding for my attention from where she was positioned behind the formerly vacated podium. When I glanced over her, she gave the traditional hostess' smile – fake and overly excited to see you. "Booth, bar, or table?"

"Booth'll do me fine, thanks." My reply was short, but the presence of so many 'th's gave my accent away easily, so when she smiled again, she seemed more engaged, shuffling through her menus unnecessarily before leading me aside to a booth near to the door. She assured me someone would be with me, and returned to her post. As I waited, I let my gaze drift to the window mounted on the wall over my booth. I watched the final fingers of light from the dying sun shift and then fade, heralding the coming of the damnable night. Absently, I dug a fingernail into a crease in the grainy wood of the booth's table as I waited.

"Hi." I looked up to find the owner of the perky, hospitable voice. My waitress was a shorter, curvy blonde with an open, honest face. She just screamed country girl. She was also top heavy, to say the least.

I tapped the pad of my finger against the front of the menu, where a little box declared the dollar draft promotion Sam had mentioned earlier in the day. "Is that for everything on tap?"

"Sure is. But we only have domestics on tap anyway."

_Looks like Smithwicks is out of the question. _"Amber Bock?"

"Can do!" Another one of those toothy, tight smiles waitresses are renowned for, before she was gone. She didn't use a pad. _I guess she doesn't have trouble remembering. _I turned my attention back to the window, considering the growing dim, and what it hid.

It hadn't always been this bad. I'd feel them once in a while – generally around late October to early Spring. But then, a few months ago, something had changed. I started to see things again, started to taste the decay in the air with growing frequency and concern. And for the first time since I had been a child, I started to fear the dark again. It wasn't long until I started running – but no amount of distance behind me seemed to change anything. _What the fuck is happening to me?_

There was a clink of glass that brought me out of my reverie. The girl had returned with my drinks, and she brought with her a new expression on her slightly oval face. Her smile was still there, but it had grown marginally less confident, and her eyes were scrutinizing me closely. I thought for a moment that my shirt had slipped and she had seen the gun, but an absent brush of my hands across my ribs betrayed the holster was still well covered.

"Thanks very much", I ventured, before adding, "Is everything alright?" I felt one of my eyebrows creep upwards reflexively.

"Uh-huh", she murmured distractedly – leaving me wholly unconvinced, before she cocked her head curiously. "Can I get y'all anything else?"

I shook my head, and she retreated, but as I sipped on my drink slowly, I could sense she was still casting occasional glances my way. I don't know if I had said to spook her, or if she had picked up on my own unease. Either way, I felt it best to sip pensively on my glass – which had already begun to sweat; in the bayou, even the air indoors was muggy. I was drinking on an empty stomach, and by the time I was mostly done with my beer, I could feel it start to sink it. I ordered another.

Bon Temps was the first town I had stopped in for more than sleep since I had left New York. I guess I had forgotten how things operate in small towns. It was the middle of the week and Merlotte's wasn't staying open long. The construction crew left before I had finished my second drink, but the younger truck driver stayed at the bar, splitting his attention between a brunette on his arm and my waitress. The alcoholics at the bar were still hanging on, but the majority of Sam's business had begun to slow before eleven. Even in my rapidly dulling state, I felt a twinge of nerves at the prospect of leaving the bar.

"We close at twelve on week nights", the girl serving me explained distractedly as she delivered my third glass. I hadn't noticed her approach.

"Dollar drafts all night?"

"Well, it'll be morning then", she replied triumphantly after a moment's thought. Though she looked pleased with herself for the verbal footwork, she was still jittery. _Whatever. I have my own problems._ Coinciding with the thought, a soft plink echoed through the bar as Sam touched a finger against the bell mounted on the bar. Closing time. Nowhere to run. _Time to face the music._

I made a big pretense of finishing my drink as the rest of the customers shuffled out of the bar, In the end, only the young guy and his date outlasted me – apparently a friend of Sam's, they sat at the bar talking while the latter wiped down the taps. When the blonde waitress approached my booth with a wet cloth, I took it as my cue. As I stood to go, she straightened slightly and opened her mouth to speak, only to snap it shut again and proceed to furiously swiping down the table. By then, I didn't take much notice – she'd been acting strange like that all night.

I made for the door, feeling my pulse slowly thudding in my temples as I pushed open the door, and stepped out into the gloom to leave the dim glow of Merlotte's behind me.

Being at the very edge of town, there was absolutely no light beyond what managed to escape from the windows of the bar at my back. Even that didn't make it much farther than the parking lot. The loose pebbles that comprised the lot crunched under my boots as I wove between the cars and headed for the road. I didn't know where I was going – but I knew it didn't matter. I figured I'd shoot for the far side of the road and then see how far I got from there. If it wasn't for the beer, I'd probably be running by now. As I was now, I didn't really think it mattered. The Irish were inherently fatalists.

Crossing the road went down without any incident, and I was surprised to find myself standing on the far embankment, unscathed. The wind whispered through the silhouettes of the trees before me, causing them to sigh and lean in a ghostly dance. I glanced down the road in either direction, trying to decide on a course – I was already farther along than I had planned. I was feeling fairly frustrated and the drink wasn't helping. "Well?" My voice was laden with provocative expectation as I directed it into the shrouded woods.

"Who are you talking to?" The tone of the voice was conversational, but when I turned on the spot, I could see she was anything but. It was my waitress again. She had forsaken her washcloth in favour of an aluminum baseball bat, which she had clenched in a death grip. She was trying to look confident, but she was clearly terrified – practically shaking. I don't know what _she_ was nervous about. This wasn't about her.

"Absolutely _fookin'_ not." I put special emphasis on my accent. "Go back inside the bar, love."

She didn't like that at all. Maybe it was the profanity, or the direct address. Maybe it was the whole idea of being told what to do she didn't like. Now she really _was_ confident, the nerves gone entirely. She opened her mouth angrily, her face darkening with an argumentative flush. Before she could get started, however, her nose wrinkled and her expression went from annoyed to disgusted. "_Ugh._ What's that smell?"

_Oh, fuck me._

"Give me the bat." I held out a hand as I inhaled a deep breath through my nose. The familiar lurch inducing scent of decomposition flung itself at my nostrils. With my hand still extended, I turned back to the trees.

"What's going on?" Her voice was trembling slightly again. I felt the handle of the bat press against my hand and I curled my fingers around the shaft as it was given over to me.

"You just got in over your head." I took a few practice winds with the bat as I spoke. "Probably. Maybe you're tougher than I am." _Go down swinging._

The smell was becoming overwhelming now, reaching a sickening pitch that added a physical weight to the air. The girl at my hip gagged but kept her stomach in check.

"Breathe through your mouth." I suggested, taking my own advise in the process. But then breathing stopped being the priority it had been.

A snapping protest of wood being bent beyond the breaking point silenced any further conversation. The light from Marlette's was faint, but my eyes had adjusted enough to watch two of the trees in the copse directly adjacent to the road bow low as something passed between them. I felt the waitress shrink away, crowding behind me slightly even as I felt the bat droop down off of my shoulder. The thing stepped out of the total gloom and into the shadow on the side of the roadway, where I could finally see it, for the first time.

It was hideous, and horrifically proportioned.

It was… _thin._

We were dwarfed on the roadway. The creature standing at the edge of the embankment towered over us, easily eight feet in height. Even in the barest light that I had to work with, I could see clearly that its' skin was pitch black, mottled with ugly patches of bile and rot. A full half of its stature was in its legs, which seemed preposterously slender. Its' equally tapered arms hung low, even standing straight-backed as it was, to terminate near its knees. Capping each was a bony, overlarge hand – each finger curved into a talon suited for nothing but inflicting havoc.

Its waist was narrow, and its' ribcage was prominent. I was certain in stronger light, I could count each of the monstrosity's ribs from across the road. Its head was contradictorily heavy, with a deep brow and a jutting, primate jaw that lend it a massive under bite, further accentuated by two yellowed canines. It was as if someone had attached the head of a gorilla to a corpse – as if this… _thing_ had shambled out of a Lovecraftian story and onto the road. I edged back in tandem with my unfortunate companion.

"We… we should run", I suggested, but my words caught in my throat as the creature spoke. _It fucking talks._ It didn't speak in English. It spoke in Gaeilge.

"A fair child?" Even in the fluid tongue of the Irish Celts, its voice sounded like rocks in a tumble-dryer; thick, and full of menace. It took a swaying step closer, but its eyes were fixed on the girl now, not me. "This night, I claim _two_ foemen." He seemed pleased.

_Chich-choch. _The pleasure was gone just as quickly as it arrived from the thing's face as the young guy from the bar pumped a slug into the chamber of his shotgun. A Benelli SuperNova – tactical model. _This guys' all about quality._ His expression was a race mixture of horror and resolve. He had left his girlfriend in the bar, but at his knee in her place was a muscular Rottweiler, his mottled white and brown fur on end as he splayed his paws and arched his back aggressively, and issued a thunderous huff of a bark.

"The… _fuck_ is that thing?" The guy's voice was bewildered – yet still retained some anger.

The 'thing' in question caught wind of his confusion and seized on it. Its thin legs bunched and I lifted the bat. It was unnecessary, as it opted to propel itself backwards, sending its spindly form crashing through the trees and out of sight before the shotgun could be retrained on it. I took a massive, shaky breath. The scent of death in the air was gone almost immediately. I lowered the head of the bat to the pavement and leant my weight on it.

"Good timing, Jason." The girl's voice was shivering with relief. "How'd you know to bring the shotgun?"

_And how'd _you_ know to come help _me, _lass?_ I certainly hadn't told her I was being stalked.

"You see your little sister leaving a bar with a baseball bat and all the appearance of using it, and you'd be damned sure to follow after her, Sook." He clicked the safety on the shotgun and rested it in the ready position across his chest. "You okay, buddy?" He was fixing me with an honest expression, brows lifted, and the family resemblance between the two immediately leapt out.

"I'm fine."

"Not to repeat myself, but what was that fuckin' thing?"

I rolled my shoulders helplessly. "I don't know. It's been following me. I have no idea what it is."

"Why didn't you use your revolver?" Sam asked, rising from his crouch – fresh from his return to his human form. He was stark naked, but it didn't seem to bother him any.

"It's empty. I can't afford ammunition."

He laughed, hollowly.

"Where were you walking to anyway?" It was the girl now. 'Sook'. "Where are you staying?"

"I wasn't walking anywhere. I just came out here to…" My voice drifted away.

"Die?" Jason now, his voice skeptical and a bit reproachful. "Comon, man, I don't know where you've been, but we don't let folks – even strangers – walk out to die. 'Specially not to something as fucked up at whatever that thing was."

Sam seemed to be just as critical of my decision, but he spoke to the girl first. "Hey, Sookie. Go on inside. The other girls need to divide up the tips." She seemed to be just dying for an excuse to cut and run at this point, and she fairly jogged back to the bar while Sam turned his attention on me instead. He wiped his hands on his bare thighs before he spoke. "Jonathan, I'll put you up for the night. I own a couple of condos in town."

He turned to Jason. "You mind driving him out for me? It's the same complex your sister stayed in when her house nearly burnt down."

"I got it." Jason reply was easy as he slung the shotgun up over his shoulder like some action hero. He waved his free hand at me. "Jonathan, huh? Comon, then. I'll get you there in a hurry."

When I turned my back on the copse of trees to follow after him, I felt an immense pressure, like a wave of hatred beating between my shoulder blades.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hey Folks._

_Like a lot of this series, I've rooted my take on things in casual mythology of several cultures. You don't need to know anything about Irish, Nordic, or any other mythology in order to follow along - anything necessary for the story will be explained. But if you're the sort to background read, don't hesitate to google the background information. Most of it will certainly add another dimension to what I'm trying to add._

_However, the reason I remark on this particularly is because there is a caveat. Under no circumstances should you investigate what a Full Nelson is without safe search enabled. Learn from my mistakes._

_Believe it._

_Also, don't be shy. Review, even if it's not entirely positive. I'd like to know how my target audience is receiving this nonsense._

_Matthew_

* * *

><p>Another day, another strange bed. I blinked blearily at the ceiling for a few moments, slowly recollecting the events of the previous night. Ironically, I hadn't dreamt of the lake or Jessica at all that night – the first time in a while. It was day out, but the heavy curtains Sam had installed in the bedroom of the condo were thick enough that I couldn't see how far past dawn it was – there was merely a dim halo of light around the underside of the thick shroud. I released a low sighing yawn and raised my hands to my eyes to rub the heels of my palms into my sockets. In the act of stretching, my toe knocked against something and I heard a heavy metallic clatter as whatever it was fell from the end of the bed and struck the floor.<p>

I grunted and leaned out of bed, reaching for my discarded jeans to haul them up onto the bed beside me by the waistband. I fumbled for a moment, still mostly asleep, before finding a pocket and scooping out my phone. I checked the face, which read 12:30 pm. I had slept for eleven hours. _Woah._ I pinched the bridge of my nose to try to force away the lingering headache that came with freshly waking. I swung my bare legs out over the edge of the bed and sat up, forcing them into the confines of my jeans before hopping to my feet – forcing myself to be spritely. I buttoned my fly and made to navigate to the foot of the bed to examine what it was that had fallen.

It was the distinct form of the aluminum baseball bat I had appropriated from the blonde last night. I had forgotten to give it back when we had all scattered. I guess I was so distracted with what had gone on at the roadside that I didn't even notice I had been holding it when Jason drove me out. I'd probably have to go give that back to her at some point.

I felt my lips curl downwards into a slim frown as I caught the bat by the grip and hefted it up, laying the head across the upturned palm of my other hand. Now that I was thinking about the girl, my mind started turning over the events of last night. I had been so preoccupied by my own reaction to the appearance of the entity that I hadn't thought of the significance of the girl. That thing had called her a fair child. I didn't know what the fuck that was, but it had also called her a foeman. For whatever reason, she was lumped in with me.

_And what the hell is with that anyway?_

Why was I a foeman to begin with? I hadn't ever done anything to these things. I hadn't even known they existed until they were already trying to kill me. And since then, I'd done nothing but try to get away from them. I don't know what purpose it served to off me, but for whatever reason, they thought it was important to just snuff me out. And the girl too – she had better watch out, now, too.

_Ah, damn it._

I only just recalled that the thing had spoken in Irish, not in English. It was easy to forget transitions when you're fluent in two languages. I seriously doubted 'Sookie' (I assumed it was a nickname) was fluent in the Goidelic language. She probably didn't realize she had endangered herself in the long run as well as in the short term by coming out to help me. I reached for my phone where I had left it on the bed.

Before we had all parted ways at the door of Merlotte's, Sam had given me his number and told me to call him if I needed to know anything about the apartment. I selected his name from my list of contacts and held the phone to my ear as I waited for the call to go through.

"Merlotte's." A female voice answered. One of the waitresses. Sounded like the tanned girl who had manned the podium the night before, but I honestly couldn't remember her voice.

"Is Sam there?"

"No, sorry. He's taking the day off today." He must have been preoccupied with what he saw as well. "Can I help you?"

"Uh, maybe. I was at the bar last night."

"I recognize your accent. Did you forget something?"

I thought for a moment. Explaining how Sookie's bat got into my possession would be difficult. "No, uh, it's just my waitress dropped her phone when she went past me as I was having a smoke outside the bar and I didn't catch her before she drove off" I lied.

"Oh, Sookie? I'll just give her a call." Not the brightest girl.

"I… well; she won't have her phone…"

"Oh, right."

"Is she working tonight? I can swing by and give it back to her."

"No, she's off too. I don't know if I'm supposed to do this, but I can give you directions to her place. Anyone could really."

"Great."

I sort of regretted using her phone as my lie, because it meant I'd be dropping in uninvited. The walk to Sookie's house was long. She lived about as far out from town as Merlotte's was, albeit on the other side of Bon Temps. It meant I had another hour long trek in the muggy, sweltering heat of the Deep South to endure, and as I slumped down the road swinging the bat idly against my thigh, I was well aware I looked like a total hooligan. Hopefully the Bon Temps police department wouldn't come across me. I didn't need some xenophobic Southern Sheriff asking me why I was hauling a bat down the road – especially when I didn't have a good excuse other than that I was attacked by a supernatural entity last night.

Luckily for me, I got through the heart of town without any incident, and by the time I was near enough to her house, I hadn't seen another car pass me by for a long while. I found the turn off that lead down a gravel pathway towards the modest two story house. I saw a car in the driveway, so I was relieved that she'd be home at least and I wouldn't have to sit alone on her porch with nothing but a bat to protect myself. The walk out had been uneventful, but that didn't mean things were going to stay that way. I checked my phone as I walked up the porch steps to the verandah. One thirty in the afternoon. I knocked on the door.

"Coming!" Her voice echoed from somewhere on the second floor. I could hear footsteps descending a flight of stairs before she appeared in the hallway beyond the screen door. She was wearing smile, but that faded rather quickly as he brow furrowed in confusion as she caught sight of me through the door.

"…Hi…" she greeted as she opened the door. Apparently a man appearing on her doorstep with a bat wasn't enough to frighten her. Again – small town. I could tell by her tone that she didn't know my name. That's fine. I didn't know hers either.

"I… brought this back. Accidentally stole it off you." I held out the bat for her, and she looked as if it had totally slipped her mind.

"Oh, right!" She took the bat off of me, and I used my freshly vacated hand to wipe the sweat from my brow with the backs of my knuckles. She saw this and chastised herself. "Now where are my manners? Do you want to come in?"

I nodded and she stepped back to let me through, waving me on to the sitting room while she went to the kitchen. I heard her opening the refrigerator as I passed through and sat on the couch. It was a comfortable set up, with a low table set before the couch, and a loveseat directly across. I was still trying to figure out how to break into the conversation when she walked into the room, set a glass down on a coaster before me, and sat herself down in the loveseat.

"You have something you want to talk to me about." She stated it as a fact. She was pretty perceptive. Or maybe it was something else. I pursed my lips into a skeptical expression before I spoke.

"You know that in the same way you knew I needed help last night?" She was silent, folding her hands in her lap in the face of my question before I spoke again. "Does that have anything to do with being a 'fair child'?"

"A… what?" That got a response.

"Last night, when that… uh, when we were standing on the road. Did you hear that thing speak?"

"Sure. It sounded like nothing I ever heard before. Completely weird."

I smirked sardonically. "It was Gaeilge. Irish."

"Oh…" She looked embarrassed, but I just shook my head. I was well aware how strange Irish sounded to a non-native.

"He called you a 'fair child'. For whatever reason, it sounded like you were on the same list I've been on." _The Kill List._

"…What are you trying to say?" She sounded nervous now, like she was catching on. "That that thing was there for me?"

"No… I'm pretty sure it was there for me. It was surprised to see you. But it approached the situation like it was killing two birds with one stone. So I don't think you're going to go unmolested." She frowned in response to that before I spread my hands. "What's a 'fair child'? What's this got to do with me?"

"I don't know", she replied honestly, standing from the couch, "but I can call someone who will."

* * *

><p>She spoke into the phone for a few minutes before returning to her seat. She sat forward slightly, her hands nervously sat upon her knees. "He's on his way. Should be here in about fifteen minutes."<p>

"Who is he?" I felt an eyebrow lift.

"My cousin. He knows more about what we are than I do."

"So you _are_ different."

She nodded her head in confirmation, but she was eyeing me suspiciously again before she replied verbally. "Not really. But you're different too."

I blinked in surprise, before I looked down myself. "What makes you say that?" As far as I could see, I was perfectly normal to a degree that I was remarkable in my sheer averageness.

" We'll see what Claude says when he gets here, but I'm pretty sure you're different."

"Different like you are?"

I could tell she was thinking about that, her lips pursed in thought before she finally shook her head to the negative. "No…", she said slowly, "you're not like me. Not like Sam either. You're not like… anything I know about."

I shrugged helplessly. I didn't really think I was different. She seemed pretty sure, but I was going to maintain my skepticism. Other than her opinion, there was nothing in my whole life that suggested I was even the slightest bit out of the ordinary. _Except for the undead monstrosities chasing me of course. Some superpower._ As I mulled this over, I noticed there was a pad of paper and a pencil sitting on the little table at the girl's elbow.

"Sookie…", I started, before I realized I never clarified her name. "Is it alright if I call you that? I don't know your real name."

She laughed. "That _is_ my real name."

"Oh… wow." I didn't have any other response.

"You're…?" She was looking at me expectantly as I puzzled over her unusual name.

"Oh. Jonathan. Nice and normal." I waved my hand indicatively towards the pad at her side. "Anyway. Do you mind if I see that? The pencil too…"

After she gave both over to me, she leant over the table to watch as I began to doodle on the pad, frowning in concentration and erasing often as I went. I was a fairly good artist – a skill I never took the time to properly cultivate – and after a minute or two, Sookie came around the table to sit next to me on the couch to watch me work. I tried to think back to the dark roadway and recall details, but the thing had been enveloped in darkness and the stress had hazed my memory. Still, I think I made a decent go of it, and Sookie seemed to think so too.

"Hey, that's pretty good!" She seemed pretty impressed as I finished off the outline of the creature and began shading in the disturbing mottled black of its skin. Once I had finished it, I held it up for her to examine more closely.

"You see anything I missed? So your cousin knows what we're talking about."

"Well, it was dark out. I didn't really see much at all. You seem to remember a lot more about it than I do…" I guess her eyes weren't as keen as her intuition. I looked over my rough drawing of the thin, towering figure, and made a little stick man next to it in order to give it scale. Satisfied, I dropped the pad back onto the table just as we both heard a car pulling up outside. Boots on the porch sounded moments before a heavy knock shook the door.

Sookie got up to answer the door while I remained behind on the couch. I heard voices at the door before she returned with a tall, dark haired man. He looked like he had awkwardly stumbled off of the cover of a romance novel – bronze toned with hair that tumbled down his neck and across his shoulders, its edges bleached slightly from the sun. He was wearing jeans and a ragged t-shirt – and a skeptical expression. That changed as he stepped into the room and caught sight of me – he blinked in surprise – an emotion that did not sit well on his carved features.

"Who's he?" His question was directed to Sookie.

"That's Jonathan. He's new in town..", she started to explain, trailing a few feet behind him, but he waved a hand in a dismissive – almost regal manner to cut her off.

"No", he interjected, "I mean – _what_ – is he?"

"We were hoping you would tell us." My tone was dry. I didn't much care for being spoken of as if I wasn't present.

"I've never seen anything like… _that_." I looked down at myself after his comment. From the toes of my worn running shoes to the tips of my chewed fingernails, I couldn't see a single thing out of the ordinary about me.

"Like… what? I don't see anything."

"I don't know how to explain it. Extraordinary creatures tend to be able to identify each other on sight, but how we appear to each other depends on the nature of both the viewer and the one being viewed."

I felt one of my eyebrows creeping up higher as I glanced him over. He looked normal to me – or rather, he was the epitome of classical masculine looks, but nothing about him screamed that he was super human. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary about you. If I'm a 'Supe', shouldn't I?"

His surprised redoubled at that. "You can't?" He followed his rhetorical question by glancing aside to Sookie, who was standing listlessly near the doorway that led from the sitting room to the kitchen – debating playing hostess, apparently. He looked back at me and continued. "You have… a corona. It's the best way I can describe it. Though Sookie, who is slightly different than I am, probably knew you were different when she couldn't read you properly."

"Read me?" I blinked. Sookie gave the new arrival a withering, dour look of disapproval before she announced she was going to get the sweet tea, and moved into the kitchen and out of sight. For his part, the strange man – Claude – seemed slightly amused by the annoyance he had wrought.

"Oops." He shrugged his shoulders and sat down on the loveseat across from me.

"You're fair folk then?" I sank back into the cushions, folding my arms across my chest.

"Sookie told you that much?"

"Not exactly. She said you'd explain."

His brow furrowed as he puzzled over my response, but shrugged his shoulders. "You're Irish, going by the accent. I doubt I have to explain who and what the Fair Folk are to you."

"You're trying to convince me that you're Tuatha de Dannan. _Fairies_." I laughed hollowly at the concept.

"You live in a world where it is known and largely accepted that both vampires and werewolves live amongst you." Claude smirked slightly. _Okay, fair enough._ I waved a hand in a dismissive gesture designed to mirror his own.

"Fine. You're both fairies. What does that entail, exactly?"

"Not quite. I'm a fairy. And it entails much of what you expect from your people's stories. The Irish found us back when both of our people were young – or should I say, naïve. We didn't hide much initially. Over time we grew more and more reserved, but kept involved in human affairs. Which is how Sookie came to be. She's a quarter Fair. We share a Grandfather, but that's all."

"But that means Fairies and Humans are still the same species." The ability – or lack thereof – to interbreed was the final factor in speciation. Claude seemed to know where my logic was taking me.

"And Vampires and Werewolves are also the same species as humans then. The world's changed. You have to play by different rules now. Regardless as to the… empirical classification of what Sookie and I are, we're undeniably different. And so are you."

Sookie returned with a tray, with some pastries, a few glasses, and a pitcher of iced tea set upon it. She poured the glasses and set them neatly down on the coasters on the low table before resuming her place next to me on the couch.

"Alright. So that means I look like a lens flare to you." I resisted rolling my eyes and turned them instead to Sookie. "What did he mean?" I didn't have to explain myself. She lifted a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug.

"It's like Claude said. I can't read you properly."

"And what does that mean?"

She reached up and touched the side of her head, a fingertip tapping against a blonde temple. "I can see into people's heads. Normal people."

I thought for a moment. "Sounds horrible."

The corner of her lips twisted upwards. "Like you wouldn't believe."

"But with me…?"

"Like Claude said, the way I perceive all extraordinary creatures is different. Shifters I can mostly read – vampires I can't read at all. With you…" She paused and thought it over before she nodded towards Claude. "He's got it mostly right. It's like a halo of light. I don't see it around your body like he does. I see it around your mind. It's bright enough to blind me."

"So you can't read me?"

"I can get your feelings, but not much else."

I pursed my lips in thought. "That's how you knew how to come outside and help me last night?"

She bobbled her head side to side indecisively. "I could tell you were mortally afraid of something. The rest of it was female intuition. I didn't know exactly what you were dealing with, but I could tell it was bad." I wondered if she had known how bad it really was going to be.

Claude was getting interested in the conversation again, which was a relief to me. During my back and forth with Sookie, he had fixed me with a scrying stare that was making me rather uncomfortable. I relaxed a fraction as he spoke to the girl instead. "What happened to you last night?"

"Take a look." She reached for the pad – still on the table – and turned it around so Claude could look it over. She explained what he was looking at as he did so. "Jonathan was being followed by that thing when he came into town. I went outside when I caught on he was in hot water, and it babbled something at us before Jason scared it off with a shotgun."

"It wasn't babbling," I reminded her, feeling the hint of amusement I was entertaining bleed into my comment, "it was speaking Gaeilge. Not much better, but still."

I turned my attention back to the other man. "It called Sookie a Fair Child, and identified her as his enemy. That's how I knew she was different."

Claude was frowning at the piece of paper, but he shook his head and spoke again. "I've never seen one of _those_ either." I felt my expectations deflate. I was eager to know what exactly these things were, and why they were after me. "But", he added, "I think I know what it is, based on what you just said, Jonathan."

Sookie and I both sat quietly as he finished examining my sketch and sat back in his armchair. "When the Celtic migrants first arrived on _Eire_, they were the first humans we had ever encountered. But they weren't the first foreign civilization to land on Ireland. For centuries before the Irish human populations were present, we were at war with a third culture. It was only with the cooperation of the Irish settlers that we barely managed to defeat them – which is in part why we so trusted the Irish above all other people. They helped us dispatch the _Fomhoire'."_

"You're trying to tell me we ran into Balor One-Eye last night?" I could feel my skepticism bleeding into my voice again. Sookie, for her part, was looking rather lost.

"Absolutely not." Claude shook his head almost disdainfully. "Fortunately for you. Had it been Balor, neither of you would be having this conversation with me. Luckily, he was killed at the Battle of _Magh Tuiredh_, as the myths state – thought I was not nearly yet born to witness it. Not even Niall – our grandfather – was born at that time, though his grandfather before him was one of Lugh's Aides-du-camp. But if it was not Balor, it was certainly one of his ilk."

"But you said they were dispatched."

"Dispatched, not destroyed. The bulk of them retreated into the Pale – their realm – where we dared not follow. They haven't been seen in force in this world since. For centuries after their defeat, my people continued to hunt down those that had not faded from this plane. They continued to crop up all over the world, and buried themselves in the legends of almost every single human culture. The _Draugr_ for the Norse – possibly their trolls and Frost Giants as well. The _Oni_ and _Kappa _of Japan. _Djinni_ and _Daeva_ of Persia."

"Dragons?" I asked sarcastically. _Why the hell not?_ I figured that if I was going to believe in vampires, werewolves and fairies, Fomhoire were just hopping on the bandwagon at this point.

"It's possible" Claude replied, rolling his shoulders into a shrug.

"You have to be joking. "

"Not really. According to the histories we keep, the Fomhoire are mostly humanoid – but a sizeable number of them were simply monstrosities. The only thing that defined them as a people was their love of subjugating and destroying anything that was not their own. Over time, however, we eliminated all of the Fomhoire that remained on Earth. Niall supposedly killed the very last of them personally."

"Until this one showed up."

Claude looked disturbed at my comment, and Sookie finally broke her silence to speak.

"Do you think Niall missed one, Claude?" Her hands were folded primly in her lap as she spoke.

"It wouldn't be like Grandfather to make a sloppy mistake. I doubt he missed any. They scoured the Earth over for decades after the last was killed." His dark eyes were troubled as he looked down at the sketch pad again. "No. This one came from the Pale."

We were quiet for a while, before Sookie spoke again.

"Seems like a long way to drive just to get one guy."

She was right. But according to them, I wasn't just one guy.

_What was I?_

* * *

><p>Claude left shortly after we finished speaking. I was surprised by how much time had gone by when we had finally called it quits. The sun was already behind the wooded bluff to the west end of Sookie's property that marked the end of Bon Temps and the beginning of the ungroomed forest between her house and the larger town of Shreveport. Sookie and I were on the porch as Claude pulled away in his convertible – a BMW Z5. Apparently he had some money to go with those looks. Sookie was about to head back inside when she glanced around the yard and frowned.<p>

"Where's your car, Jonathan?"

"Huh?" I was puzzled for a moment before I realized she had gone back inside the bar by the time Jason had driven me out to Sam's apartment. "Oh, it's not here. It's down at Terry Bellefleur's for repairs. That's why I'm in town."

"Oh yah…" she remarked, a frown making itself known on her oval features. "Sam mentioned that. How are you going to get back?"

"I'll walk. I have time before dark if I hurry." With the information overload I was experiencing from Claude's explanations, I hadn't even been thinking of the Fomhoire in a real, threat-based context. But with her obvious concern, the knowledge that it was still out there and waiting for me caused my mouth to dry slightly at the prospect of the long walk back.

"No, you're most certainly not", she protested, a hint of that same stubborn pride she (and her brother) had shown the night before. "You need to stop trying to kill yourself. What's wrong with you?"

I coughed uneasily. I didn't like being scolded – I wasn't exactly lacking in pride myself – but the truth was I was frightened to walk home. And she had a point as well. There's wasn't much reason other than pride to walk out towards town.

"I have a guest room. It's already made up. Inside." She shooed me into the house with a flick of her hands, as if swatting a fly, and I proceeded into the house, and she closed and locked the door behind us, sealing me in.

And the night out.

* * *

><p>Third day, third bed. I was on a roll.<p>

Except this time it wasn't morning. I didn't know what woke me up at first, but I lay in the darkness staring at the ceiling for a while, trying to remember where I was and how I got there. It came slowly. The evening had been quiet and pleasant – a lot of TV, which I hadn't had the opportunity to watch in a while. Sookie had told me that someone might come over to the house late in the night but that would be normal and not to worry. Maybe the door opening and closing had woken me up, but I didn't hear any voices. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and rolled over to check the time. Two thirty. I'd been asleep for a little over an hour and a half.

I might have just been too hot to sleep. The guest room was on the second floor of the house and was therefore warmer, but I was sleeping in just my jeans and on top of the covers, so I was cool enough. My mouth was dry. I probably needed a drink. I swung my legs out over the side of the bed and stood, stretching my arms towards the ceiling before heading for the door and out into the hallway. The wooden boards were cool under my feet as I descended the stairs and felt my way towards the kitchen in the gloom.

I found the sink and a glass in the drying rack, and turned the tap to fill my cup. When I took a sip, I almost retched. The water was irony – metallic and viscous. I spat it violently into the sink, but the rotten taste was in my mouth now, and I spent the next minute or so gagging over the sink.

"Are you alright?" Sookie was at the doorway, rubbing sleep from her eyes. She was wearing a set of sky blue woolen pajamas, and was evidently freshly woken by my coughing fit. I managed to stagger to the fridge and find the pitcher of iced tea, and a fresh glass, which I used to rinse out my mouth.

"I'm fine", I said. Sookie had turned on the lights while I had lumbered haphazardly around her kitchen. "Your pipes, however, are not", I finished.

She adopted a curious expression and moved to the sink while I took another swig of tea, attempting to purify my palate of the memory of the tainted water. She turned the tap and I watched as a clear stream of water escaped.

"Looks fine…" Sookie murmured, and I was beginning to doubt myself when I noticed my previously discarded glass, where it rested innocuously on the counter at her elbow. The liquid contained within was a deep crimson – nearly black in this light – and I indicated it to her. She collected it, cradling the crystal container in both of her hands as she lifted it to her face to smell. She nearly retched herself at the mere scent of it.

"Ugh! What _is_ that?"

"I don't know, but it tasted almost like…"

"Blood", Sookie finished affirmatively. "But old blood that's gone rotten and irony." I raised my brow at her but she merely shrugged one eggshell-blue shoulder at me. "I know about blood. And this is bad blood. It smells… familiar."

I worked my tongue around my mouth for a moment before I had to agree. Yes. It was the same.

"It smells like that thing did last night." Sookie's voice confirmed. "But… why was its _blood_ in my tap water?"

I didn't have an answer for her. Not that it mattered. There was a deafening crack of wood from just beyond the kitchen window, and we both flinched. It sounded like something had snapped the railing of her verandah in two. The wind whispered in its wake, but I couldn't hear anything in the following minute besides the creaking of the old house.

"You don't happen to have a gun?" It was too much to hope for.

"Jason left one of his Mossbergs over here when he traded up for the Benneli." Her nerves had her rocking on her heels.

"Go fetch it?" As I spoke, I reached out for the wooden block on the counter before me, the grooves of which sheathed Sookie's cooking knifes. I withdrew the carving knife – forgoing the heavier cleaver for a more pointed, slender profile. Sookie opened the broom closet near the doorway to the living room and withdrew the pump action Mossberg, checking the chamber before quietly working the action to feed a round into readiness. She knew how to use it, at least.

"Are we going out there?" Her voice was quavering slightly again.

"We can either go out there or wait for him to come in here. We have a gun and he presumably doesn't, so finding space is in our interest." Now that Claude had explained what exactly we were dealing with, it was a lot easier to be brazen. I began testing the light switches on the wall until I found the one that ignited the bulb for the verandah, which was washed in pale light. I looked over at the girl. She wasn't ready.

Neither was I.

I redoubled my grip on my 'dagger' and pushed open the kitchen's door to the back of the house.

It was on me immediately this time. The games were over.

The closed fist that rocketed towards my head was poorly aimed. Perhaps the sudden onslaught of the light had disoriented it, but regardless of the reason, I was only clipped by the first punch. Even so, the ferocious, inhumane strength that fueled it was enough to propel me against the railing and into the yard. Had it caught me square, there was little doubt it would have caved my skull in like an aluminum can. As it was, I was sprawled, stunned, in the damp grass in front of Sookie's house.

I heard her shriek in surprise, followed immediately by the overwhelming shout of the Mossberg discharging – followed immediately by an equally deafening roar of anger and pain. The knife was still in my hand, and I pushed myself to my feet and tried to steady myself to help in any way I could.

_This was a fucking stupid idea._

There was another thud from up on the porch, and a snarled hiss, but before I could focus my bleary eyes, I was slammed back onto the ground, the wind rushing from my lungs again, and this time I was pinned. My ribcage was immediately compressed under the weight of the thing – the Fomhoire – on top of me, its dinner-plate sized hand pressed hard into my ribs – preventing my diaphragm from depressing and refilling my lungs. Once more, I was suffocating.

I could see it clearly now – or at least its silhouette as it crouched over me, framed in the light from the porch. Its thin body seemed only more enormous now as it slowly pulled back its fist again, the taloned claws that were its fingers curling into a fatal fist intended to flatten my skull against the turf.

And then it was physically ripped off of me, torn sideways and up as something wrenched it from my prone form. My thorax expanded and my lungs inflated, supplying my desperate body with oxygen that made me sputter and writhe on the grass. I was out of action for a minute at least, during which the Fomhoire continued to bellow and thrash about the yard, nearly trampling me on several occasions.

"Get up and help me, damn your eyes!" The male voice was unfamiliar, but it was enough to galvanize me up onto my feet and back into the fray. My fingernails were still digging into the wooden handle of the knife, and I turned to try to find a target.

The Fomhoire was violently spinning and flailing about the yard, bucking like a wild stallion. The source of its ire was the owner of the strange voice – a tall, blonde man who was clinging precariously to the beast's back. He was close to seven feet in height, but even he was dwarfed by the gangly, towering mass of the Fomhoire. He had it in a Full Nelson – his arms wrapped underneath its armpits and behind its head to render its arms inert, but their height difference means that his feet were dangling and he was suspending – incapable of gaining the leverage necessary to place pressure on the Fomhoire's neck.

I hesitated for a moment, uncertain of my accuracy with the violent manner in which the thing was rampaging about, but the decision was swiftly taken out of my hands as it turned suddenly in its desperate struggle, and barreled right into me, and my upraised knife. I was knocked to the ground yet again, but this time the Fomhoire sank to its knees with me. The weight of its own charge had impaled it, breast first, upon the point of the knife, my surprise-stiffened arm supplying enough resistance that the sharpened edge pierced the decayed, mottle-grey skin and split the sternum with a soft pop. I felt the blade sink into the soft viscera within and the Fomhoire spat a dark gout of bloody phlegm into my face as all three of us sank to the ground – the blond man borne upon the back of the creature.

Though the wind was knocked from me again as I was hurled onto my back, I managed to keep my wits enough to hold my grip on the handle of the knife. As the Fomhoire sank down onto its haunches, I violently twisted the blade – provoking a gurgling howl from my erstwhile tormenter. As he collapsed, the man upon his back finally was lowered enough that his feet could find the ground, and I had an excellent view of the latter's defined biceps rippling as his own enormous strength was finally brought to bear on the neck of his victim.

The Fomhoire's chin was immediately forced down against his chest, and a fraction of a second later, a stomach churning crack echoed across the yard as the vertebrae connecting the base of his neck to his skull snapped apart under the pressure. He went immediately and morbidly limp, and his body toppled sideways to lay sprawled upon the grass at my side.

The blond who had intervened on my behalf had to detangle himself from our vanquished foe, during which time I shakily pushed myself to standing. My head was still spinning as I spoke.

"Who are you?" I asked dully.

"Where's Sookie?" His inquiry was sharp and voiced simultaneously to mine, so an awkward moment elapsed as both of us waited for the other to answer.

"I'm fine." Sookie was rising from her collapsed position on the verandah. She looked anything but. There was a bleeding laceration across her forehead, and she lifted a hand to wipe her eyes clear before she spoke again.

"And that's Eric. I think I mentioned he'd be dropping by."


End file.
